


In This Game We Call Fatherhood (Birdcage)

by DollyDoppler



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: AJ Carmichael A+ Parenting, AJ Carmichael is the antagonist we deserve, Buckle up I'm going to get mean, Father!Carmichael, Gen, Heavy comic book inspiration ahead, Possessed like the séance to write this, TUA s2 rewrite, Temporary one shot: read AN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-25 14:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30090522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollyDoppler/pseuds/DollyDoppler
Summary: A little bird warned AJ Carmichael of deceit. He would be a fool to let it go unnoticed, and a bigger fool to come away without the prize.This, naturally, changes everything that follows.
Relationships: AJ Carmichael & Lila Pitts
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	In This Game We Call Fatherhood (Birdcage)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Soundtrack: [That Lucky Old Sun](https://open.spotify.com/track/3xg4oZglI2bk8kQzH9Tx4T?si=C-JlQUb8Tc2TWLqdk96ZHw&utm_source=copy-link) by Frankie Laine

_**1955\. Commission HQ.**_

It was important to tend to the little birds. The ones that preened under the simplest of praise. The ones that treated their superiors as if they were the sun. They provided integral structure to the company for they were the ones that kept the others in line. Were they to see the smallest sleight performed, they would not hesitate to fly their little wings up and sing their little song in hopes that the sun might shine a little bit of light on them. As of late, Carmichael heard such a bird.

He struck out another paragraph with thick, black ink. It was a warm summer evening. A day so pleasant he would consider leaving work a few hours early just to take advantage of the weather. Instead, he was sequestered inside his office, finishing up a rather unexpected workload. He had yet to determine if he would consider it a pleasant affair. 

Light illuminated his office, coating the books in a lovely yellow hue. The feathers of the preserved taxidermy encased in glass shined iridescently, casting his dome with its reflected light. A globe stood proudly at the corner of his desk beside a stray stapler, most notable for the foreign continents that decorated its oceans; each landmass was portrayed wholly different from Earth’s own. Carmichael turned the page and, with a burst of bubbles, tutted at what he read, before he struck it once more with ink. The pressure was enough to bleed through the page. A shame, he thought to himself, that this must be done, but the little bird’s song could not go ignored. 

A knock interrupted his steady rhythm. With his approval, the large wooden door creaked open. “Carmichael, sir, your, uh, your six o’clock is about to arrive,” his intern chittered. Herb was a small, blocky sort of man with a nervous disposition. A weak sort of creature when faced with authority. Weak, but loyal.

Carmichael put the cap back on his pen with a solid snap. “Thank you, Herb. I’ll be right out. You’re dismissed.” The man nodded, and shut the door quietly behind him. 

In a slow, collected manner, Carmichael stood up and put on his pair of leather gloves. Beside the door stood a solid oak coat rack, layered down with a small selection of trench coats of varying neutral tones. From it, he retrieved one that would complement his cedar brown suit, tailored perfectly to his form. Pulling down from the topmost hook, he placed a bowler hat on top of his dome. A hum reverberated from his sound com, and his attention redirected towards his desk. “No need to make it messier than it has to be,” he murmured, and slipped the tranquillum into his empty holster, opposite hip to his pistol. Without another word, he left his office and entered the heart of Commission HQ.

People milled about the halls, each moving with intent. Some were speckled with blood, still donning disguises of a time period not of which they were present in; while others carried an immense load of paperwork and folders, scurrying to their destination. There was not a moment of pause, each member sidestepping one another with a grace expected of Commission employees. Only the finest were of use. Carmichael’s sudden presence, however, was much like a massive log diverting the course of a stream, and it disrupted their rhythm.

“Hello, Carmichael!”

“Good evening, sir.”

“Wonderful day, is it not?”

One by one, his workers chirped out a greeting. He nodded kindly to each, lifting his hat up to those he particularly liked. The ones with impeccable records. The ones who were promotion material. Answering any questions for the most pressing of matters: Which items to file, which to scrap; who to contact now that Individual A was indisposed; who would be best to assassinate Individual B to fulfill Scenario C. And so forth.

Due to the attention towards his person, Carmichael’s arrival to the briefcase room was later than he had hoped. That said, lateness was irrelevant in their line of business. “Dot, do you have my means of transportation prepared?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Dot, whose friendliness border-lined irritating, enthusiastically chirped. She pushed his assigned briefcase across the table. “I’ve triple checked the specs and even polished the exterior.”

“Right.” Sure enough, the black leather exhibited a sheen reminiscent to when it was first dispatched from production. In the reflection of the window glass, he could make out the expectant expression of Dot. “Keep up the good work.” These empty words should be enough to placate her for the time being, he reasoned. She was promotion worthy, if he conditioned her correctly.

“Knock em dead, sir!” In more ways than one, he supposed. 

Without another word, he activated the briefcase. No longer were the white walls and stark interior of the room he stood in. Instead, soft pale blue cabinets and cream curtains replaced his surroundings. It was a simple room. A window overlooked the sink, capturing a glimpse of an expansive backyard fenced away from prying eyes. A bowl of fruit graced the island filled with bananas and oranges and apples. 

His watch indicated it was a few hours past dinner. It shouldn’t be much longer now, and he still needed to finalize a few more details. As if he were not some unwanted creature invading the home of his adversary, he inspected the interior of the freezer. “She’s making this a tad too easy. A pity,” he muttered to himself, preparing a bowl of strawberry ice cream.

Upon quick inspection, he discovered that beside the kitchen stood the dining room separated by a cream colored door. It was a stark contrast from the styling of the kitchen; where the kitchen was decorated in a fashion most popular to the 1950s, in which this neighborhood resided in, the dining room was built with the early 21st century in mind. White paneling framed its gray walls. Dark oak wood contrasted the cream of the chairs. An expensive chandelier hung above the set, providing light to the focal point of the room: a red painting was proudly displayed, trails of thick excess paint streaked across the image giving the impression of a web. “How droll of her.”

Once his preparations were complete, he returned to the kitchen and made himself at home. Soon enough the room smelled sharply of cigarettes and lavender. The smoke intermixed with the natural perfume of the home despite the open window. He flicked the cigarette, its ash falling heavily into the sink. It shouldn’t be much longer now. He leaned back against the counter, briefcase resting beside his foot. And waited.

He did not have to wait long. The analysts had been right when predicting their arrival. He heard the tell-tale sounds of an agent teleporting into an adjacent room, followed by the unmistakable sound of the Handler’s honeyed voice. The clacking of her heels drew closer. Carmichael took that as his cue to drop the remnant of his cigarette into the sink. Just as the butt hit the bottom, the Handler walked into the room. She paused mid-speech, clearly alarmed by the sudden appearance of her boss. Clutching her hand was a little girl, body blanketed by a pink nightgown. In the little girl's other hand was an odd plastic doll.

He exhaled and idly watched the plumes drift out the window. “1993. London, England.”

Unblinking blue eyes examined the Handler’s shocked expression. Clearly his appearance was never in her realm of possibilities this far into her plan. A shame for her really, that she convinced herself she won this far down the line. If she had predicted this as a potential scenario, well, she might have been able to put up a proper fight. Her pink painted, fleshy lips opened, about to speak, but his raised hand cut her off. “Little one,” he said to the girl still holding onto the hand of his employee. “I have a bowl of ice cream in the other room just for you. Do you like ice cream?”

She nodded shyly. Carmichael swam closer to the edge of his glass dome. “Wonderful! Run along before it melts.” He shooed her gently into the other room with a flick of his wrists.

The Handler was clearly on guard, her jaw set. Eyes narrowed and hardened. But she allowed the little girl to run off into the dining room. Carmichael presumed it must be to ensure that the girl would not become afraid of her, lest violence broke out between the two Commission agents.

"Now AJ-” She was not given a chance to say another word. In the blink of an eye, he drew his tranquillum from its holster and pulled the trigger. It looked like nothing at first. The tranquillum was not known for its visual flare. At most, one could see a distortion of air if they really concentrated, like heat on a summer day. If it were darker, one might see a faint blue glow travel from the barrel towards her person. The Handler crumpled into a heap on the floor with a solid thud as if someone shut her completely down without warning.

Carmichael forced her hand open, disassembled, and tossed the pistol it clutched to opposite sides of the room. He left her unconscious body there, twisted uncomfortably. There the Handler would remain, unable to move for the next eight hours, until his agents were able to retrieve her for further interrogation.

In the meantime, there were more important matters to attend to. By the time he reunited with the girl, half of her bowl of ice cream had been consumed. Saliva and strawberry residue coated the corners of her mouth. Droplets of the melted dessert drenched the front of her nightgown. If Carmichael were able to form expressions, it would have reflected his disgust at the sight. Humans were such revolting creatures. “Hello, tiny warbler.” He greeted kindly, pulling up a chair in front of her. “I don’t believe we had a chance to properly say hello. I am Atlas Jericho Carmichael. You may call me AJ. What is your name?”

Her curious brown eyes surveyed him with interest. Cautiously, she replied, “My name’s Lila Pitts. Where did the lady go?”

Her attention diverted towards the closed door. Now, he thought to himself, we mustn’t have that. So the lie slipped easily out of his sound com, “The Handler? Why, she went to take a nap. She was very exhausted from her hard day at work. Are you tired?”

“Yeah.”

“You must have had a long and very scary day. Did the ice cream help some?”

She nodded, eyes large and oh so very innocent. She had potential, like malleable unshaped clay. Carmichael could see why the Handler set her sights on Lila.

“Fear not, warbler. You’re safe. I’m here to protect you.”

“But you’re a fish.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover. I can hold my own in a fight. Just like your doll and, if you would like, in time you can too.” Inside his helmet he performed a front flip, eliciting a delighted laugh from Lila. “Now, my little bird, would you like to stay with me? I promise you can eat all of the ice cream to your heart’s content.” Provided she behaved, that is.

“Yes, please!” Finally, a smile.

“So polite, aren’t you.” He patted her gently on the head. “Come, come. Let’s take you to your new home. I’ve got your very own room prepared for you and you can introduce your toy to their new friends.” He offered her his hand, swimming invitingly in his helmet. And the little bird took the bait, taking his hand in hers. He opened the briefcase, and, in a blue flash, they were gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prologue for a much larger project I'm working on, but it can still stand on its own so I decided to post it. I've got a good chunk of the rest of the story plotted out, and will be posting the early iterations of the chapters on tumblr (find me on [wireless-art](http://wireless-art.tumblr.com); alternatively, [fifth-umbrella](http://fifth-umbrella.tumblr.com)). Due to the involvement of time travel and the butterfly effect, I will not be adding to this story until everything is complete.
> 
> Rating will increase to M due to graphic depictions of violence when I do. Feel free to send me an ask on tumblr about the series!


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